


The Yin to Your Yang

by misbegotten



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're not old, Phil. You're just seasoned."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Yin to Your Yang

**Author's Note:**

> A companion of sorts to [Be My Ball (I'll Be Your Chain](http://archiveofourown.org/works/348394)). Shameless PWP, of no redeeming value.

Phil is beyond tired. Not to mention sore, aching, and bruised in places he'd rather not contemplate. He feels like he's gone five rounds with Natasha Romanov on a sparring mat, but he only has HYDRA to blame for his current woes. That, and he's feeling his age.

With a sigh, he lets his suit jacket slide off, tossing it in a chair (his dry cleaner will forgive him, this once). He kicks off his shoes, steps out of his trousers, and slowly begins to unbutton his dress shirt. There's blood on the cuff, he notes absently (his dry cleaner may not forgive him, after all). Dropping to the bed, he peels off his socks, and then just sits.

"Hey," Clint says softly from the doorway. He's still got his Avengers uniform on, bow slung behind him. "You okay?"

Phil smiles ruefully. "Feeling old," he says lightly, making a joke out of it. It's not though, not really. On days like this, it's hard not to feel the difference in their ages, hard not to look at Clint standing tall and strong -- maybe only a little worn around the edges -- and feel envious. It's hard for Phil not to wonder what the hell he's doing here. He sighs and strips off his t-shirt, tossing it in the chair.

Clint hisses when he catches sight of the bruise purpling along Phil's side. He slots his bow next to the bedside table and thumbs at the catch of his collar, loosening it, and then kneels down next to Phil. "Ow," he says sympathetically, lightly brushing a fingertip across the stained skin.

"Ow," Phil agrees, though it's not so much his muscles than his pride that is hurting.

Clint knows. Clint always knows, damn him.

"Hey," Clint says again, letting his lips ghost over the bruise. "Did I ever tell you how sexy you are when you're kicking ass?"

Phil swallows a smile. "Agent Barton, you think everything I do is sexy."

Clint licks Phil's side lightly, humming agreement. "True. You can do paperwork and it gives me a hard on."

Phil closes his eyes, just enjoying the light tingle that follows the path of Clint's tongue down his side, close to his hip. His cock swells at the nearness of Clint's breath to his briefs, and he fights down an urge to just grab Clint and _take_.

Apparently there's life in the old dog yet.

Clint reads him like he always does and huffs softly. "You're not old, Phil. You're just seasoned."

"And tenderized," Phil points out, wryly.

Clint chuckles as he stands and starts stripping off his uniform. He lets it fall to the floor, along with his underwear, then plants a hand firmly on Phil's chest. "Lay down," he orders, pushing lightly.

Phil lets himself fall back, but not before winding his hand around Clint's arm and yanking Clint down with him. They land solidly, Phil wincing slightly at the impact, but it's worth it to have Clint spread out over him.

"You're heavy," Phil complains teasingly, but Clint _is_ a mass of sinewy muscle, compact and solidly built. Phil thinks how easy it is to forget how much sweat Clint puts into each arrow, each tensed muscle and every practiced aim. Clint's workout routine is as tough as any of the Avengers -- tougher, Phil knows, because there's no superhuman power behind it -- and it pays off in an admirably fit physique.

Yes, Phil feels a little inadequate in comparison some days.

"Stop thinking," Clint chides him, and sucks an open-mouthed kiss to the skin just below Phil's jaw. "Turn off your brain for a goddamned minute." His hand brushes carefully down Phil's side, resting on Phil's hip.

Phil sighs at the impossibility, and Clint gives him a rueful laugh. "I know, I know," Clint answers the unspoken declaration. "Let me give you something else to think about, then." He cups Phil's groin, cock already hard in his briefs.

Phil rolls his eyes. "I've got sitreps to write, debriefings to do."

"I'll debrief you," Clint responds with a grin, hooking a thumb under the lip of Phil's underwear and pulling it down.

"You're a menace," Phil laughs, but he lifts his hips and lets Clint discard his underwear. "No more puns," he warns.

"I've got better things to do than play word games with you." Clint settles between Phil's legs and noses the scruff of hair at the base of Phil's cock. "I'm going to make you forget how to think." He licks a stripe up Phil's length, and Phil twitches involuntarily. Clint's lips are warm, and when they close over the head of Phil's cock he closes his eyes and restrains a moan. Clint, being Clint, takes this as a challenge and swirls his tongue, sucking noisily to draw a long groan out of Phil. He grins in victory and resumes his task, until all Phil can feel is wet heat and a tingling at the base of his spine that threatens to turn into all out fire. He brushes his hand across Clint's cheek, warning him, but Clint refuses to pull off and then Phil is pulsing his release, shaking with it, and Clint swallows, teeth gleaming in a smile.

"You," Phil manages, waving a shaky hand in Clint's direction. "What do you want?"

"Wanna fuck you," Clint growls, and Phil feels his stomach go tight with anticipation. Clint slaps Phil's thigh lightly, urging him to turn over. He fumbles in the nightstand for lube while Phil pulls a pillow down, positioning it under his hips. The first touch of Clint's slick finger inside him is tight and perfect, and Clint plays a little, in and out, rubbing against Phil's hole and then sliding in again until Phil grumbles under his breath and Clint relents. Two fingers pinches, clearing Phil's head from the aftershocks of his orgasm and causing him to draw in a breath.

"You okay?" Clint asks, and Phil nods.

"More," he demands roughly, and Phil can feel Clint smiling as he murmurs something about bossy bottoms. Then Clint crooks his fingers just right and Phil gasps in pleasure, and Clint does it again, and again, and Phil is just starting to think that Clint needs a good ass-kicking on the sparring mat when Clint withdraws his fingers and lines up his cock. He goes slowly, hands shaking ever so slightly on Phil's hips as he bottoms out and then he's stroking into Phil, a stuttered pattern of in and out and fill and be filled. Phil flexes his fingers into the mattress, clawing at the bed covers, as he is overcome with sensations of heat and muscle and the gentle glide of Clint's fingertips on his back, at his hips, over his bruised side. He can't focus on anything but Clint, Clint, Clint, and he realizes he's saying it aloud when Clint tightens his grip and moans his release.

They collapse on the mattress, and Phil rolls slightly to capture Clint's hand and entwine their fingers together across his chest. Clint mumbles something about the mess as his cock softens between them, but at the moment Phil could care less. He raises Clint's hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles softly, then rests their joined hands over his heart.

"You still thinking?" Clint asks muzzily. His head is buried in Phil's shoulder.

"Always," Phil answers.

But if he's just thinking about Clint, and not about sitreps or debriefs or any number of things that ought to be on his agenda and aren't right now, that's his own secret.

He closes his eyes, and lets Clint's breathing lull him to sleep.


End file.
